


Between Sunset and Sunrise

by electricshoebox



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Amicable Exes, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Relationship Advice, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 17:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17208173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: Minor spoilers for the beginning of Chapter 4."We ain’t never done right by the people we loved. Even--even when it was each other. So do right by her, and your boy. You hear?”After a night of celebration, Arthur gets some unexpected closure to old wounds, and finally feels ready to start something new.





	Between Sunset and Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> I loved this game so much it pushed me to start writing again. I fell head first into shipping Arthur/Charles from the very first hunting trip, but because I'm me, I couldn't help but head canon an angsty teenage romance gone wrong between Arthur and John. I love both ships, and all involved, everyone here is amicable (well, as amicable as John and Arthur can get at this point in the story), but hey, shit was complicated. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Endless and profuse thanks to both **serenityfails** and **zythepsary** for their thoughful beta work, and to everyone who encouraged me during the writing process.

The dark tents scattered around the hunching ruins of Shady Belle light up at the sound of hooves on the foot bridge. Abigail abandons a half-eaten bowl of stew and runs to meet John’s horse, tears already wetting her cheeks. John lowers Jack, unscathed and smiling, into her trembling arms. Tilly and Mary-Beth round the broken fountain to meet them, craning to look at the boy. Lanterns flare to life tent by tent, all the way back to the crumbling stable behind one of the wagons. Shouting and whooping breaks the evening stillness around the swamp. Abigail grabs Arthur’s wrist with one hand--the other clutching Jack to her chest--and whispers, “Thank you,” over the boy’s head, smiling through her tears. Arthur can’t help but smile back. 

Strange, how life goes sometimes. Arthur wonders what he would’ve thought six, seven years back to see himself being thanked by Abigail Roberts, of all people. To see himself happy to see her happy. Maybe he’d done some growing after all. 

Charles meets Arthur at the hitching post, a habit he’s picked up ever since Arthur’s delirious ride into Clemens Point, bleeding and barely conscious. Arthur might gripe a bit about mother-henning if it weren’t for the quiet relief in Charles’ eyes every time, and the gentle smile of welcome. If Arthur’s going to be real honest, it might be what he looks forward to most after every trip out. 

“All good?” Charles asks as Arthur finishes knotting the reins. Arthur nods, reaching into the saddle bag to pull out an oat cake. He holds it out to the horse and rubs her muzzle fondly as she eats. Arthur glances up at Charles and smirks, gesturing with his chin toward where a small crowd is gathering around Abigail and the boy in her arms. 

“Regular little princeling now,” Arthur says. “Got to hear all the way home about his fancy bedroom and the fine ‘spaghetti’ they fed him.”

Charles scoffs and shakes his head. “Of course they did.”

The growing crowd moves to the bigger of their campfires, and Javier grabs his guitar. Arthur hears the telltale thump and clink of a crate of whiskey being pried open. Bottles pass from hand to hand, glinting in the firelight. He gives Charles a lopsided little grin and clasps his shoulder. He lets his hand rest there a little longer than is really polite, and nods toward the group. 

“One way or another, we got him back. Think we’ve earned a little celebrating,” he says.

Charles grins back. He reaches up, letting his hand linger on top of Arthur’s for a moment, and then moves to take a seat on one of the crates around the fire. 

Javier’s fingers begin dancing along the guitar strings, and his voice rises over the din. They all join in, singing in broken Spanish none of them really understands, laughing at each other as they go. Jack claps along where he sits in Abigail’s lap, and even Strauss tries to mumble along with the rest of them. Dutch stands at Arthur’s side and waves his cigar in time with the guitar. For the first time since they blustered into Shady Belle, everyone seems happy. It’s good. God, it’s good.

Abigail leads Jack back toward the house after the first song, with the practiced maneuvers of a woman who knows exactly what the gang’s celebrations are likely to turn into. Nothing fit for a little boy to be around, anyway. John trails behind them, and Arthur watches them go with a faint smile. He takes a swig from his whiskey bottle and wonders how long it’ll take John to shit the bed again. 

About twenty minutes, as it turned out. As Arthur strolls toward the table with the whiskey crate to grab himself another (and maybe see about sharing it with Charles), he hears Abigail’s voice, sharp and high. He glances up to see her and John seated on the porch, John raising his hands as Abigail says something Arthur can’t make out, but he can just about feel her glare from where he stands. She stands abruptly, marching around John and holding a hand out for Jack, who’s playing near the fountain.

“Come along, Jack,” she says loudly. “It’s time for bed.”

She flashes one last sour look over her shoulder at John before throwing the front doors of house the open and all but dragging Jack inside. John throws his hands up and shakes his head. After a moment, he stands and walks to the scout campfire near the edge of the swamp, dropping himself heavily on a log. Arthur snorts, shaking his head with a grin he can’t help. God, that stupid idiot. He plucks another whiskey bottle out of the crate just as Javier’s strumming slows in a quieter song behind him, and he makes his way toward the gazebo. 

“Well, that might be a new record for you,” Arthur says, stepping over the log to take a seat next to John. When John shoots him a look, eyes narrow under the brim of his hat, Arthur just holds out the whiskey bottle. 

“The hell are you on about?” John snaps, snatching the whiskey out of Arthur’s hand when he sees it. He takes a heavy drink.

“Ain’t been back an hour yet and you already got her pissed at you,” Arthur says. John’s jaw tightens, and Arthur watches several different expressions pass over his features. 

There’s an old journal in the bottom of the chest Arthur keeps his clothes in, hidden carefully under a pile of half-folded shirts, filled with sketches of that same face. Younger, smoother, unmarked by the jagged scars that now cut across his cheek, but Arthur still knows all the lines of John’s face better than he wishes. He knows the way those lines shift with every mood, knows how to read them long before John says a word. It used to hurt, to look across the campfire at him and Abigail and know...too much, far too much. Now, it’s a strange sort of intimacy, like sliding his feet into an old pair of boots just to see if they still fit, but eyeing the hole in one toe and feeling the lopsided heels and knowing he’ll never really wear them again.

“She’s just impossible sometimes,” John finally says. He lets the bottle dangle loosely from his fingers as he rests his elbows on his knees. He bends his head down.

Arthur fishes a cigarette out of the pack in his coat. “Well, that makes her perfect for you, then.”

“Shut up,” John grumbles without looking up. Arthur laughs, and perches the cigarette between his lips. He drags a match along the bottom of his boot, and lets the silence between them stretch. The voices behind them have gone quieter, and he can only just hear the sound of the guitar, a tune without words. Arthur listens to it as he looks out beyond the fire, into the trees across the swamp. Moonlight spills between the branches and over the water.

“I ain’t...good at this,” says John, after another swig from the bottle. 

“Don’t gotta tell me that,” Arthur says. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches John’s shoulders tense.

“You ain’t any better,” John says. Arthur sighs. John argues like a cornered dog most of the time, snarling and barking at every step too close, biting at any sensitive bit he can reach, just to make himself feel like he’s winning when he knows he’s already lost. Arthur barely feels the bite, anymore. 

“Think I don’t know that?” Arthur says, smoke escaping his lips. He turns a little on the log, facing John, who still keeps his head low. “Listen, Marston. We ain’t good men meant for a good life. We ain’t gonna get a lot of chances at one. I weren’t good enough to keep what I had, and I lost it, more than once. I ain’t gonna let you make the same mistake.”

John finally straightens, mouth moving as he starts to reply, then stops, then starts again. He raises his hand slightly. “Shit. I--I wasn’t trying to--”

“All I’m saying is,” Arthur interrupts, and John closes his mouth and drops his hand, “do it right this time. You got your boy back. I didn’t. So do right by them, the way I didn’t for mine. We ain’t never done right by the people we loved. Even--even when it was each other. So do right by her, and your boy. You hear?”

John stares at him for a long moment, and it’s a fight for Arthur to meet his gaze, but he does. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say when he’d wandered over here, but there’s no taking it back now. Probably about time he said it, truthfully. A twig snaps in the fire, and the light of the sparks that fly flickers across John’s face. “Arthur, I--”

Arthur waves the hand that holds his cigarette, a zigzag of smoke trailing behind. “If you’re aiming to apologize, it ain’t time for that no more. Leave it to lie. Whatever you got to say, you can show me you mean it by showing her you mean it.”

John’s hand tightens around the neck of the bottle. “You deserved better, let me say that at least. I should’ve--”

“Yeah, you should’ve. But it’s done,” Arthur says. “You got someone now, and so do I, maybe. Like I said, we ain’t gonna get many chances. Probably already got more than our share. Do it right.”

Arthur isn’t sure how long that’s been rattling around in his head, unsaid. Studying John’s face, he feels a little like he’d felt when he’d tried to fish at the edge of the swamp a few mornings ago. Murk and mud had clouded the water, too dark to see the bottom, and he’d had to watch the surface for signs of any fish at all. 

John’s eyes move away, staring at a point over Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur smokes in silence, waiting, until finally John nods, once and then again. 

“All right, Arthur,” John says. He sets the bottle on the ground between them, a decision made. 

“Good man,” says Arthur. 

John pushes slowly to his feet. Arthur leans to grab a piece of firewood from the pile, itching for something to do with his hands after that kind of talk. He tosses it onto the fire as John starts to climb back over the log. When he gets both feet on the other side he stops, and he looks back down at Arthur. 

“It’s Charles, ain’t it?”

Arthur coughs, smoke billowing into the air around him. “Come again?” 

John, the bastard, is smirking now. “That someone you maybe got. It’s Charles.” 

They hadn’t talked much about it, not really, Arthur and Charles. It was something that had been building slow, maybe since before things went to shit in Blackwater. A few looks that lingered, a few careful compliments, a few deliberate brushes of their fingers. But it’s the night he rode blindly across the countryside with O’Driscolls on his heels and pain burning wildly in his shoulder that he thinks of when John asks him about Charles. He thinks of tumbling off his horse and into strong, waiting arms that carried him back to his cot. He thinks of a gentle voice in his ear as he’d faded in and out of sleep, of warm hands on his bloody, tacky skin. He thinks of a whisper he wasn’t even sure he was supposed to hear.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if--” Charles’ hands had paused in looping a clean bandage around Arthur’s shoulder. His eyes had met Arthur’s, then darted away again to finish the binding. “Don’t you go pulling that shit again.”

There hadn’t been much time, after that, for more than lingering touches. The Pinkertons came, and Jack went missing, and they burned a house to the ground. Not much room in there for anything else. 

A squeeze on Arthur’s shoulder shakes him from his thoughts, and he glances up to find John grinning down at him. He looks away quickly, stubbing out his cigarette against the wood of the log. John laughs.

“I knew it,” he says. “Good.”

“Oh, get on up to your woman, you nosy bastard,” Arthur mutters, and John just keeps grinning, letting go of Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur furrows his brow, turning to call after him, “Wait, ‘good’?”

“Yeah,” John says, turning to walk backwards. “Shows you have some taste after all.”

“Or he does,” Arthur says, winning a laugh.

“‘Bout time you found yourself a little happiness, Arthur,” says John. He turns back toward the house, the porch creaking under his feet and the door groaning along with it as he disappears inside.

Arthur sighs, turning back to the fire and flicking the stub of his cigarette into the flames. How strange his life had turned out. Not that he thought--well, not that he thought it would be much different. He and John never had a future, not really. Two stray dogs Dutch adopted and tried to train, always nipping at each other’s heels. It wasn’t some kind of great romance. Still, he loved that idiot once, in his own messy, stupid, teenage way. Hadn’t looked to love him. Hadn’t really wanted to. But that was just John Marston--worming his way under Arthur’s skin with that unexpected, rusty charm and that earnest determination and that goddamn smile. 

It’s nice that he can think about it now without an ache under his ribs. How long had Arthur pined after him? Longer than he’d admit to, even in the safety of his journal pages. Hell, even in his own damn head, most of the time. But it’s freeing, he thinks, to watch John walk away from him to find Abigail and feel only amused, and a little fond. Let him go, and build his family, and make his life. Arthur doesn’t wish anymore that he fit in it. He’s got somewhere else to be.

“Mind some company?”

Arthur closes his eyes a moment. He’s hard-pressed, at least in this moment, to think of a better sound than that smoky voice, come to pull him out of the mire of his thoughts. He turns to smile up at Charles and waves him into the empty space John left behind. “Only if it’s yours.”

It’s probably more honest than he ought to be, damn whiskey, but it earns him a small smile. There’s a look in Charles’ eye, the same sort of look he gets when he’s tracking something, a sort of sharpened focus. It makes Arthur’s pulse quicken a little to have it directed at him. Charles climbs over the log and sits down closer than he needs to.

“You talk some sense into John?”

“Ain’t no one on this earth could knock sense into that fool’s head,” Arthur says. “But don’t say I didn’t try.”

“If he’d listen to anyone, he’d listen to you,” Charles says, stretching his feet a little closer to the fire. It cracks, sending another shower of sparks leaping over the flames before dizzily spinning back down. Arthur pulls another cigarette from his pocket and offers it to Charles, who shakes his head. He shrugs and lights it for himself, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth of it in his lungs.

“Think you got that wrong,” he says on the exhale, smoke curling into the air in front of him. He looks out over the trees again.

“Not from where I’m sitting,” Charles says. His gaze is making the side of Arthur’s face itch, and he scratches compulsively at the stubble on his cheek. Charles adds, “I don’t think you realize how much weight your word has with people around here.”

Arthur wants to reach for the whiskey bottle John abandoned near his feet. He settles for another drag from the cigarette. “Blind leading the blind,” he says.

“You did good, Arthur. With him, with Jack. You always do, one way or another,”

There’s a moment Arthur goes back to sometimes--more and more often, if he’s being honest. In the forest north of Rhodes, next to the dry river bed Micah had wanted to call home. A woman and two children, trembling behind a rifle Arthur isn’t sure the woman actually knew how to use, begging for help. Arthur had scoffed, but Charles listened. And when Arthur had protested, Charles had wheeled around on him and said something that burned into Arthur’s memory like a brand.

You ain’t as tough and dense as all that.

It’d stung in the moment, pushing Arthur to spit back something sharp about Charles not knowing him as well as he seemed to think. But that wasn’t true. Arthur’s starting to think that maybe Charles knows him better than he knows himself. 

He means to say something now about how wrong Charles is, or that he doesn’t need to be so charming. Instead, he says, “How is it that you see something in me no one else in my life ever has?” 

He doesn’t look at Charles as he says it, mumbles it to his boots insead, letting the brim of his hat dip low over his brow. Why’d he have to go and say a thing like that? He sounded like a--like a child, lost and lonely and looking for someone to tell him he was doing all right. He sounded like the night he met Dutch. Jesus, Morgan.

A warm hand settles on Arthur’s knee. Whatever he’d been expecting in reply, that wasn’t it. Charles’ voice is soft as he says, “I don’t think that’s near as true as you think it is. But I see _you_. Not an errand boy, not a meal ticket, not--a savior. Just you.”

Arthur almost drops his cigarette. He tries not to wonder how much he looks like a spooked deer, and fumbles to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to say to _that_ , exactly. 

Charles is a man of few words, but when he uses them, he chooses them carefully, and never says a thing he doesn’t mean. Arthur’s heart hammers in his chest, and then he wants to roll his eyes at himself. It’s just a touch, Arthur, for god’s sake--acting like a fool boy about to get his first kiss--but his hand’s not moving--

“Arthur.” Low, and a little rough, and only for Arthur to hear. “Look at me.”

He does; powerless to refuse, really, he takes one last drag from his cigarette and then throws it into the fire like the last. He slowly raises his eyes.

 _Jesus_. It’s like something out of those dime romance novels Mary-Beth’s always reading, that Arthur most certainly has never read in his life. The flames of the campfire flicker in Charles’ eyes, dark with purpose, with that same intensity as when he sat down.

“If you want me to let go,” Charles says, with that low voice that’s making Arthur _shiver_ , fuck, “tell me now.”

Arthur swallows. He stares a moment longer, then rasps, “Don’t you dare.”

Charles’ lips are as warm as his hand as he dips his head to meet Arthur halfway across the distance between them. Strong fingers press against the stubble on Arthur’s cheek and into the sweaty ends of his hair. His other hand leaves Arthur’s knee to pull his hat off before settling on his shoulder. Arthur’s hand curls into Charles’ shirt in answer. The kiss is chaste, but firm, because if they are finally, _finally_ doing this, Arthur isn’t about to make it subtle. 

They part for a breath, long enough for Arthur to catch a glimpse of Charles’ lidded eyes, his swollen lips. Then the hand at his jaw tightens, and Charles whispers his name, just his damn name, and pulls him in again. And if that didn’t shoot through Arthur like lightning, he’d be made of stone.

“You trying to kill me?” Arthur gasps against Charles’ mouth. When Charles laughs, his breath ghosts over Arthur’s lips, and Arthur feels that all the way to his damn toes. Arthur leans in to kiss him again, but just then a shout, unmistakably Bill, unmistakably drunk, pierces the air across the camp. He hadn’t even noticed the music stopped. Both he and Charles turn, and through the railing of the rickety old gazebo behind them they see Bill and Pearson standing toe to toe, barking in each other’s faces over something Arthur can’t properly make out. Bill waves the bottle in his hand as he talks, and Pearson jabs a finger into Bill’s chest. No one seems to even notice Arthur and Charles.

“God damn it,” Arthur sighs, loosening his hold on Charles’ shirt. Charles’ hand drops away from his face, but lingers at his shoulder. Arthur shakes his head, “Just give me one good night, you damn fools.”

“Do you--want to stop?” 

Arthur looks back at Charles quickly. “Fuck no. Let those idiots kill each other for all I care. Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted--to--” 

He stops himself short-- _good god, Morgan, quit running your mouth_ \-- and looks down. “Shit, I’m sorry, this is--I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Charles’ hand fits beneath Arthur’s chin and lifts. Arthur looks at him again, uneasily. 

“If you’ve wanted this half as long as I have--” he says, and Arthur breathes a little laugh, pursing his lips. Charles runs his thumb along Arthur’s chin. 

“A fine pair we are,” Arthur says, quirking his lips. “Wasting all this time.”

“I just wasn’t sure if you--if I was alone, in this, and losing your friendship wasn’t a price I was ready to pay,” says Charles. His thumb pauses, and he looks up at Arthur. 

Well, shit. “If we can get out of earshot of those idiots, I’m happy to show you exactly how much friendship I got for you.”

Charles rolls his eyes, but he can’t quite smother his grin. “You’re the idiot,” he says. He lets go of Arthur’s chin and pushes himself to his feet, holding a hand out to Arthur. “Come on.” 

Arthur looks at his hand. Truthfully, if Charles asked him to ride all the way back up the mountains through snow and wind to Colter right this very second, Arthur would’ve mounted his horse without another word. But he’s sounding a lot braver than he’s feeling, too, and tries to stumble back on familiar ground with a teasing mutter of, “Where’re you dragging me off to at this hour?” 

“Come on, old man, it ain’t far,” is all the answer Arthur gets. Arthur grabs his hat from the ground and places it back on his head. He lets Charles pull him to his feet, and makes no comment when he doesn’t let go of Arthur’s hand. Charles pulls him along behind the gazebo and around the side of the house. The shouting across the camp dies down to the dull murmur of voices, and a few of the lanterns have gone dark. The moon is high and bright now, wreathing the trees in silver, and lighting the path Charles makes for them toward the little boathouse on the water’s edge. The wood protests loudly as they climb toward the door.

“You take me to the nicest places,” Arthur mutters as Charles lets go of his hand to pull the door open. 

“You got a better idea?” Charles says, raising an eyebrow over his shoulder as Arthur follows him inside.

“Well, if this thing falls out from under us into the swamp, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Arthur says. He pulls the doors closed as Charles moves to light a lantern perched in the corner. It is a small, dusty little room lined with shelves and a few cabinets. A bedroll and a small pillow lie on one side of the floor, along with Charles’ pack. Supplies for fletching and whittling line one or two of the lower shelves. It makes Arthur smile, a little. 

“So this was your plan all along, I see,” Arthur says, more to get his mind off the buzzing feeling under his skin than anything else. He pulls his hat off. “Already got a bed laid out and everything.”

“You caught me,” Charles says. He’s so calm--how is he so calm? How is he _always_ so calm? “I figured I’d seduce you and steal your salted offal while you slept.”

“Oh, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I part with that kind of treasure, Mr. Smith,” Arthur says. 

“Don’t make me resort to threats, Mr. Morgan,” says Charles. He moves across the room and backs Arthur into the only part of the wall not covered by shelves, caging him in with an arm on either side. Arthur’s fingers curl restlessly into his palms, aching to touch. 

“I don’t think I like your tone, sir,” he says, his throat dry. Shit, it's hard to think with Charles looking at him like that. 

“Then maybe we should stop talking,” Charles says. He doesn’t give Arthur time to respond. 

This time, the kiss is fierce. The hesitant touches of earlier had fanned the want between them to flames, and it burns hot between them now. Arthur clutches at Charles’ waist, still trapped against the wall by Charles’ arms, and bites at his lips. It earns Arthur a growl that lights every inch of his skin on fire. 

How long has Arthur tried to imagine what this would feel like? How many times has he watched Charles pick up the wood axe at the edge of camp, swinging it in one powerful movement of his broad shoulders, and itched to feel the flex of those muscles under his fingers? He’d watched Charles’ hands pull a trigger and nock an arrow and crack a man’s jaw, and then he’d watched them carve delicate little designs out of solid wood, patiently tie arrowheads with the smallest movements of his fingers, and soothe a skittish horse with gentle strokes along her neck. Arthur had never known a man as strong as Charles to hold that strength in himself, to keep it there with a settled stillness until he needed it. 

To feel those hands on him now, finally moving away from the wall to cling to Arthur’s shoulders? If there really is a heaven, this is the closest Arthur’s ever going to get to it. 

One kiss bleeds into another as Arthur fumbles to unlatch Charles’ belt buckle. It falls to their feet with a clatter, and Arthur dimly registers Charles kicking it away as he deepens the kiss. Arthur pulls blindly at buttons until Charles’ shirt falls open, baring his chest to Arthur’s restless hands. Charles gasps against Arthur’s mouth as Arthur runs his fingers down Charles’ chest, over his stomach, settling on his back. He pulls back enough to rest his forehead against Arthur’s, panting against him for a moment before nuzzling his nose along Arthur’s cheek and planting kisses along his jaw. Arthur automatically leans his head back, his fingers curling into the bare skin of Charles’ back under his shirt as he sighs out a moan. 

“That’s it,” Charles murmurs into his neck. “Tell me what feels good.”

“Shit, Charles,” Arthur rasps, derailing into another moan when Charles sucks a wet kiss into the underside of his jaw. “Everything.”

He feels Charles smile, and then he feels his belt loosen and his shirt being tugged out of his pants. Charles ignores the buttons altogether and pushes it up Arthur’s chest, stepping back out of Arthur’s reach to nudge his arms up. The shirt joins Arthur’s belt on the floor, and Charles piles his own shirt on top and begins toeing out of his boots. That’s about as far as Arthur lets him get before he grabs Charles’ hips and pulls him close again.

“Got it from here,” he says with a smirk, watching with lidded eyes as Charles’ expression shifts into open hunger. Shit, that’s a good look on him. _Everything’s_ a good look on him, but Arthur wants to remember this, the way Charles’ lips part, the way his eyes blaze. Arthur lifts one hand and skims it down Charles’ abdomen to the waist of his jeans, slipping his fingertips just underneath it. Charles holds Arthur’s gaze, breathing a little heavier. Nothing Arthur imagined could compare to this. 

He slowly starts to undo the top button of Charles’ pants, and Charles’ endless patience finally seems to snap. He clamps his hands over Arthur’s biceps and shoves him back into the wall again, his mouth engulfing Arthur’s before Arthur even has time to react. Arthur meets the kiss eagerly, barely stifling a groan when Charles’ tongue circles his own. His reach is limited like this, so he grabs at whatever skin he can reach, his fingers desperate and ungentle. Charles arches closer, bending a little to bring his thigh between Arthur’s legs. Arthur can’t smother the noise that wrenches out of him as he tears his mouth away and throws his head back, banging it on the wall. There’s a breath at his ear that he only knows is a laugh because it’s so close. Charles’ hands release his arms and drop to his hips instead, pulling him closer, making him buck forward almost on instinct. His arms free, Arthur wraps them around Charles’ shoulders, letting Charles lean their foreheads together as he makes a shallow thrust against Arthur. 

“Jesus,” Arthur hisses. “Get these damn pants off, you fucking--” 

Another well-placed thrust of Charles’ hips cuts him off, makes him gasp. He bites his lip, and Charles just watches him, keeping a lazy rhythm that seems designed just to make Arthur lose his damn mind with want. 

“You bastard,” Arthur chokes out, and earns himself another particularly wicked thrust that punches the breath from his lungs. 

“You always talk this sweet in bed?” Charles says. 

“We ain't in-- _ah_ \--bed,” Arthur says. 

“Smartass,” Charles says, leaning forward to bite gently at Arthur’s ear. 

“Tease,” Arthur counters. Charles chuckles, a sound Arthur can feel against his chest. _Shit_. 

Charles finally relents and moves to undo the buttons of Arthur’s pants. Arthur's hands fall away, and he presses his palms into the wall to brace himself. He watches Charles' face as he works, watches his tongue dart out unconsciously to wet his lips, watches the look of concentration that creases his brow. Then Arthur feels Charles take him in hand, and their eyes meet. The desire in Charles' stare, the _need_ , has Arthur's fingers clenching, too empty, at his sides. And then Charles gives his cock a long, slow stroke, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a shaky breath.

They flutter back open when he hears a soft curse, and is rewarded with the sight of Charles, still gripping Arthur's cock and slowly stroking, reaching under the waistband of his own pants. His eyes are on Arthur's, his lips parted a little.

"I wanna see you," Arthur grunts, reaching for Charles’ waist. 

The corners of Charles' mouth lift, and he obliges, pulling himself free. Arthur hums appreciatively, sliding his hands under the loose waistband at Charles' hips but stopping short of pushing them all the way off. He likes seeing Charles this way, seeing his steady patience fray at the edges. Keeping him half-clothed makes a picture of it, one Arthur's going to think of again and again. He wonders if he should dare to commit it to paper, try to recreate the way the lantern light spills over Charles' shoulders and crowns his hair, the look in his eyes, the way his hand moves over the curve of his own cock. 

"You going to stare at me all night?" Charles' rough voice breaks through his thoughts. He's grinning a little, amused. Arthur grins back, pulling Charles closer by the hips.

"You do make a pretty sight," he says.

Charles just shakes his head, stepping even closer until he can brush their cocks together, wrapping a hand around them both. Arthur's breath stutters in his chest, his fingers tightening reflexively. Charles chuckles, leaning so Arthur can feel his breath against his neck.

"And now?" he says, pressing a feather light kiss over Arthur's racing pulse. He thrusts into his own hand, against Arthur's cock.

" _Charles_ ," Arthur says, almost a whine. "Fuck. Ain't never seen anything better. But if you don't stop teasing--"

Charles cuts him off with a kiss, wet and heated, as his hand moves more deliberately. Arthur moans into Charles' mouth, his hips jerking. 

Charles strokes them both with a steady rhythm, nibbling at Arthur's lip. Arthur can barely kiss him back, can barely _breathe_ when Arthur can feel the callouses roughened into Charles' hands dragging along Arthur’s cock. He finally turns his head away altogether, baring his neck to Charles instead, as his hips move of their own accord to match the pace of Charles' stroking. Oh, fuck, he's not going to last like this.

Thankfully, Charles seems just as affected, panting against Arthur as he leans his forehead down to Arthur's shoulder. His hand shakes a little where he grips them both. 

"Faster," Arthur gasps, thrusting impatiently. "Come on, Charles--"

Charles makes a ragged groaning sound and grips them both tighter. Arthur lifts a hand away from Charles' hips. He covers Charles' hand with his, feeling it still a moment before he allows Arthur to set the pace for them both. They stroke together, and Charles turns his head to drop trembling kisses over the freckles on Arthur's shoulder. 

"Arthur," he whispers, and heat coils in Arthur's belly at the ache in it. "Arthur."

Arthur reaches up, tangling his other hand in Charles' hair. "Let me feel you," he says. 

Charles moans and turns his hand beneath Arthur's, lacing their fingers together. Arthur coaxes them to move faster, feels Charles beginning to tense against him. 

"Let me feel you," Arthur says again. "Charles."

With a loud moan he tries to stifle against Arthur's shoulder, Charles comes hot over both their fingers. Arthur slows their movements a little, and rubs gently at the back of Charles' head. 

"That's it," he murmurs. "God, Charles."

It takes Charles a few moments to steady himself again. When he does, he lifts his head, looking up at Arthur with soft eyes. Arthur wants to memorize that look. Maybe he'll buy himself a whole new journal, at this rate, just to fill with sketches of Charles' smile. 

Charles shifts, untangling their fingers to take Arthur fully in hand. He leans against Arthur's side, Arthur's arm still around his shoulders. He strokes Arthur quickly.

"Shit, Charles," he gasps. "Oh shit that's good."

"Come for me, Arthur," Charles says, watching Arthur's face. 

It only takes a few more rough movements before he does, Charles' name on his lips. When he finally falls back against the wall, Charles lets go and runs his hand up Arthur's stomach, over his chest, to rest on his sternum. And Arthur, almost without thinking, takes it and pulls it up to his lips, pressing a kiss to his palm. Charles laughs softly, and that brings Arthur back to himself a little, 

"Too much?" he says, a little self-conscious, as he glances down to where Charles is leaning his cheek against his shoulder. Charles just shakes his head. 

After a moment, he gently tugs his hand away and slips out of Arthur's grip. Arthur watches him move across the room to one of the shelves, grabbing a rag. He dips it into a bucket in the corner. Then he returns to where Arthur leans against the wall and silently begins to clean them both with that methodical grace Arthur loves to watch. Jesus, he really is far gone, isn't he? Charles catches him staring and smiles, leaning in for a brief kiss. Well, at least Arthur doesn't seem to be alone in this.

"You're something else, Mr. Smith," Arthur says. 

Charles doesn't answer, just smiles wider and begins stepping the rest of the way out of his pants. He walks toward the bed roll on the floor, giving Arthur a frankly amazing view of his ass and the way his tousled hair swings just above it. He leans to extinguish the lantern, then he turns slightly to hold a hand out to Arthur. "Come to bed, cowboy."

Arthur nearly trips in his scramble to get his own pants and boots off. Charles' laugh is a low rumble that sparks tingles at the back of Arthur's neck. Arthur lets Charles pull him down to his knees on the floor. They settle, after a moment, with Charles on his back and Arthur draped half on top of him. Arthur curls an arm around Charles’ chest and rests his head just below Charles' chin. Charles slides his fingers into Arthur's hair, carding gently through the messy strands. 

Arthur closes his eyes. He wonders, distantly, what one of the others might think, stumbling on them together like this. But he’s too warm and too happy to care just then. For awhile, they simply float on the quiet, hands idly tracing one another's skin, listening as their breathing slows and matches.

Finally, just as Arthur thinks he might doze off, Charles says, "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," Arthur says.

"Do you and John--that rivalry between you, it was more than just fighting for Dutch's favor, wasn't it?"

Arthur sighs heavily. He doesn't move to look at Charles, keeping his eyes instead on the wall across from them. "Not exactly the kind of romantic talk I was expecting."

Charles huffs a small laugh into Arthur's hair. "If you don't want to answer--"

“Nah, I reckon there weren't much hope in keeping things from an expert tracker,” Arthur says. He bites his lip. "Would it, uh, would it bother you? To know we had history, me and John?" 

"No," Charles says, and Arthur lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Not at all. The suspicion actually gave me hope I might have a chance with you."

"That so?" Arthur finally dares to lift his head and meet Charles' eyes, difficult as it is to make out his expression in the dark. 

"Yeah. At least told me you might have an interest, you know--"

Arthur quirks his lips, shaking his head a little. "Oh, I have quite an interest. Shall I demonstrate again?"

Charles rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. "You're avoiding the question."

Arthur sighs again. He folds his arms over Charles' chest and rests his chin atop them. "Yeah, all right. It was when we were young. Wasn't--wasn't ever meant to be some big thing.” That was the problem, in the end--Arthur started wanting it to be something it wasn’t, something it couldn’t be. But he doesn’t say that aloud. “We were stupid kids fighting for attention, like you said. We hated each other at first. But Dutch kept forcing us to work together, and you can't have someone at your side all the time and not get close to them, no matter how much you fight it." He purses his lips, considering. "I guess when you're that age, and raised a hooligan, everything's a fight. Even love."

"So what happened?" Charles asks, his hand settling around Arthur's back.

Arthur wishes he had a cigarette in reach, or some whiskey, something to dull the sting of remembering, even in the arms of someone else. He’s never told this to another soul, not like this. Dutch and Hosea probably had their suspicions, much as Arthur and John had tried to keep their trysts secret. But Arthur would sooner eat his own gun then face the scrutiny--or worse, the pity. Saying it aloud now, to Charles, Arthur can’t decide if it’s humiliating or freeing. Maybe a little of both. These aren't the sort of hurts he’d wanted to drag into this quiet space they'd found for themselves. But maybe it’s better to trot out all the grisly details now, let Charles decide for himself if he really wants any part of it.

"John--did what he always does when he gets too close to someone,” he finally says. He swallows against the knot in his throat. “He just pushed me away. Weren't much warning to it, he just started avoiding being alone with me, stopped talking much to me, got really sharp when he did. So I cornered him, demanded to know what the hell he was playing at, and he told me he just couldn't do it no more. Didn't give me much more than that. And of course we still had to run together, we was still family, you know. Still Dutch's boys. So I had to just...let it go, for the most part. But we were hard on each other after that."

Arthur closes his eyes, trying to remember John as a scraggly teenager, the dark wavy hair, the soft eyes. He feels the phantom tension in his arms, his stomach, as he remembers the tight coil of anger that simmered in him, the venomous words he spat at John as his fists clenched at his sides. Charles is quiet below him, tracing circles along Arthur’s spine.

"We both found other people," Arthur says, after a moment. "John went from one woman to the next. I met Mary Linton, took up with her awhile, then a waitress named Eliza. Then John met Abigail." Arthur laughs a little, shaking his head. "I wanted to hate her for a long time, the way she held John's eye. We all knew it was different, the two of them. Then Jack came and John did just what he'd done before. Couldn't really hate her when I knew exactly what it felt like, you know? Well, maybe not exactly, he didn't leave me with a baby." 

They both laugh softly. Arthur shakes his head. "Anyway, there's the whole thing for you. He's--trying now, or leastways I'm making him try. Ain't going to let him make more of a mess of this when he has a chance at something better."

Arthur straightens a little, enough to finally look up at Charles. The dark hides most of his face, but he doesn't look as put off as Arthur had feared. "Any of that about to send you off running?" he asks anyway, hoping it sounds light.

"Why? Because you loved someone and he left you, and now you're still looking out for him anyway? You're just proving what I already knew, Arthur. You're a good man with a good heart," Charles says.

"Charles Smith, you're going to make me blush," Arthur says, hoping to whatever god that’s up there that Charles can't see that he isn't kidding.

"It's the truth," Charles says. His hand strokes across Arthur’s back again.

Arthur just shakes his head a little. "Not sure what I got so right as to find you, but I ain't about to question it."

"Come here," Charles breathes. Arthur stretches up and plants his hands on either side of Charles' head. Then he leans down, brushing their lips together briefly. Charles curls a hand around the back of Arthur's neck and pulls him down again, giving him a deeper kiss. Arthur answers eagerly.

Outside the boathouse, the noise of the party is long since faded. The mansion falls quiet, until there’s little sound outside but the gentle rocking of the water against the shore, the low cracks of the campfires, and quiet snoring from the tents in the yard. Arthur sinks deeply into the feeling of Charles’ arms around him, finally letting himself forget the world outside of this room, this space between them. 

It feels right.


End file.
